No Great Loss
by vcg73
Summary: A little speculation about Kurt's feelings during/after the Regionals competition and about the loss of Pavarotti in "Original Song". Written for a prompt from STARZHEI.


This is for STARZHEI, to whom I offered a quick ficlet-on-demand in thanks for sending the 200th(!) review for my current WIP, "Everything Old is New Again". The request was for a look inside why Kurt was so upset about losing Regionals at the end of "Original Song". So, admittedly off the top of my head…

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Kurt waited with bated breath, his body nearly vibrating with excitement as he waited with all of the other Warblers, as well as the members of New Directions and Aural Intensity, for the announcement of which glee club was going to this year's Nationals competition.

They had an excellent chance of winning, he just knew it, and the desire for it pulsed through his veins like quicksilver. Aural Intensity had been every bit as much of a pandering, sucked-up, embarrassment of mediocrity this year as last. Even with the scarily-intense Sue Sylvester as their coach, which he assumed from personal experience as a Cheerio would have frightened them into giving their best, the vocals and dance abilities of the red-clad chorus just had not been anywhere in the same league as either of their competitors.

He wished he had a better personal gauge of how the Warblers had come across to the audience, compared with New Directions. He knew that their dancing was not as good, they had good individual performers – David, for example, was freaking amazing when he let loose - but the problem was that none of them ever really did let loose. They favored close, tightly patterned, almost militaristic synchronicity, and from an audience point of view, that could either be awe-inspiring or completely boring. New Directions were well-choreographed, but they had a freedom to their movements that drew an audience in and engaged it from the start.

The competition would really come down to vocals, as it should.

He had been paying close attention to his own part in the dancing and complicated eight-part harmony required for "Raise Your Glass", but he was sure their group vocals had been dead-on, and Blaine had been as wonderful as usual. "Candles" was a bit harder to be certain of. That entire experience had been so nerve-wracking and so wonderful, both at the same time, that it had seemed to pass by in a flash and Kurt had no clear memory of how his own voice had sounded.

He was relatively certain there had been no cracks or wobbles audible in his performance, but what if he had been flat? During the rehearsals, and a tiny smile slipped over his lips at the memory of how much of that so-called rehearsal time had been given over to kissing Blaine, he kept going flat in one particular spot. Kurt thought he had finally conquered the notes, but what if he hadn't?

The song had received an enthusiastic ovation from the audience, he was sure of that much. Both of their numbers had. That meant they had to have been great, didn't it? Certainly Wes, David, Thad and the rest of the Warblers had seemed enthusiastic about his performance. And Blaine . . . well, the pride and affection in his beautiful hazel eyes had been unmistakable.

New Directions had been fabulous. Kurt felt so proud of what they had accomplished that he wanted to cry. Seriously, they had performed original songs! He had never even suspected that might be what Rachel had been referring to the day she had scampered out of the Lima Bean babbling about a failed relationship being "song-writing gold". And if a tiny selfish part of him also wanted to cry because he had not been allowed to be part of this new, creative streak in his old glee club, Kurt suppressed it firmly.

Would singing original material be enough to win? Would the judges be impressed or find the effort pretentious, assuming they even realized? All of the judges looked to be at least fifty years old, after all. They probably hadn't listened to Pop music since Fleetwood Mac was still together.

New Directions' first song had been a sad, sticky-sweet, powerhouse ballad so blatantly designed to favor Rachel Berry's talents as a solo artist that Kurt had known the moment he started really listening to it that she must have composed the song herself. He had loved it, to be honest, recognizing how much of herself Rachel had thrown into those lyrics. He just wasn't sure a panel of strangers would have the same reaction.

"Loser Like Me" had been the number that really got to Kurt, and made him fearful for his own chances of seeing New York City this spring. It had been full of vivacity and life, freedom and defiance, exhibiting the very pride in being who they were, no matter what anyone else thought, that had made New Directions a part of Kurt's own soul. He had not been able to restrain himself from jumping out of his seat and whooping for joy at one point, so completely caught up in the song that he had actually forgotten for a moment that he was no longer part of their group any more. Not until he had glanced around and seen the startled looks his fellow Warblers were giving him.

It was a little embarrassing and it stung to remember in that moment that he was on the other side and part of the group his closest friends were trying to beat. He had then forgotten all about the Warblers once again when Finn began to sing the song's second verse. It was about being thrown against lockers but picking yourself up and going on, in spite of it. Being sure that you would triumph over the haters one day, because you were better than them and one day they would be working for you. The verse was about him! He knew it was. He had said those very words – "One day, you will all work for me" to Noah Puckerman once upon a time. And all of them knew about the locker-shoves he had been subjected to on a daily basis. Those lyrics were just too spot-on to have been designed around anyone else.

Kurt blinked rapidly against the memory. It felt so good to know that he had not been forgotten by his old friends, even in their quest to win. It simultaneously warmed and painfully squeezed his heart.

And that was the real difficulty today. Even if the Warblers won, part of Kurt would lose. He had come to love his current group, but even though they had loosened up quite a bit lately, at heart they would always be strict, conformist, blend-in-to-the-crowd type of performers. He wanted to win Regionals almost desperately, but it hurt to know that he would move on to the next level at the expense of both his own and his McKinley High friends' creative expression.

New Directions might triumph, however. There was no doubt that they had been phenomenal, and if they did then Kurt would lose in a big way. Not only would he have no chance at going to New York, having personally failed at Regionals for the second year running, but he would have let down the Warblers, a group who had welcomed him, befriended him, and helped him find his footing when he was still floundering from the events that had led to his mid-semester transfer.

He winced slightly, drawing a curious glance from Blaine as he turned his head to look at the tense and hopeful faces of the Warblers. Their group had been fully expecting to sail easily through to Nationals today on the strength of their charismatic lead singer, counting on Blaine to charm and mesmerize the judges in the exact same way he always did with the student body of Dalton.

If they lost Regionals, it would be because Kurt had opened his mouth and complained about Blaine's blatant favorite status with the Warbler Council, which had caused Blaine to rethink his position and replace the well-practiced, well-choreographed, crowd-pleasing "Misery" with a brand new selection. One that relied heavily on Kurt. Sure, Blaine had also changed the plan for personal reasons, and Kurt's heart skipped a beat in giddy joy, remembering that he had finally won the affections of this wonderful boy, but Blaine's wishes would have meant nothing if the Council had not unanimously backed his decision.

The Warblers had openly placed their faith in Kurt for the very first time since he began attending Dalton. Blaine had put faith in him, personally. He had not just insisted on the two of them singing a duet, after all. He had actually chosen to take the second-lead on "Candles", graciously granting Kurt his long-awaited moment in the spotlight.

If the Warblers failed today, it would be because Kurt himself had failed to lead them.

There was also a possibility, and it was a very uncomfortably realistic possibility, that they might lose because that very conservative judge panel had seen two boys singing a duet about the breakup of two lovers and condemned the entire group because of it. Because maybe, just maybe, singing a duet with Kurt Hummel in a public setting really _was_ as toxic to one's reputation and chances of success as Finn Hudson had once claimed that it was.

It made his stomach hurt just to think of it.

All of these thoughts flashed through Kurt's mind in the space of time that it took for the thoroughly soused Lt. Governor's wife to reel across the stage, introduce herself to the crowd, and tear the envelope open. His hands clenched tight, heart thundering wildly beneath the cover of his neatly pressed, outwardly perfect standard issue Dalton shirt and blazer.

The drunken woman blinked and squinted at the card in her hand and announced the winner.

New Directions was going to Nationals.

Kurt's stomach bottomed out, watching his friends go crazy with joy, hugging and screaming and clutching the huge green and gold winner's trophy. Enjoying a moment that he was apparently forever doomed to witness from the outside. Beside him, Blaine just nodded in resignation, squeezing his shoulder in shared sympathy. The other Warblers smiled and clapped politely, but they looked as down-hearted as Kurt himself felt.

He was certain that none of the other boys would blame him for their failure. In fact, they would probably say that he was being stupid to even think that. Kurt gulped, wishing he felt the same way.

Eventually, the McKinley and Dalton students started wandering over to each other's groups to exchange congratulations and condolences. Kurt hugged the girls and shook hands with the guys, wishing them good luck in New York and steeling himself to express his very real sorrow and envy in a playful, teasing manner that would not let on to anyone how disappointed he was.

After a long, mostly-silent ride back to Dalton, Kurt entered the Warbler practice room with the others and offered a meek apology for having not lived up to their faith in him. As he had half-expected, the others would have none of it, telling him he had done an amazing job. Oddly, they seemed to perk up at the reminder of how good their performance had actually been, giving New Directions its due and then reliving both of their own numbers in a lively, point-by-point discussion that made Kurt smile. They might have lost this time, but he had a strong feeling that the Dalton Academy Warblers would not take this defeat lying down. They would be a force to be reckoned with next year.

Wes, David and Thad formally congratulated the Warblers on an excellent performance and thanked them all for giving their best effort. Then the gavel came down and everyone was free to go about his own business. In Kurt's case, that meant going home.

But first, he had a personal mission to see to.

The body of Pavarotti had been laid in state in Blaine's dorm room, his tiny body wrapped in one of Kurt's finest linen Mark Jacobs' designer handkerchiefs and placed inside his freshly bejeweled casket. Set on a shelf on his bookcase, the casket had not drawn any attention from visitors to Blaine's room, probably being mistaken for some sort of jewelry box if anyone had even noticed it.

Kurt had briefly considered laying his little friend to rest in his own back yard, but had quickly rejected that idea. Pavarotti was part of a long time-honored Dalton line of canaries, and he deserved the respect of being buried on Dalton soil.

Blaine had helped him pick out a perfect spot beneath a large shade tree.

They walked silently, hand in hand, as they went to Blaine's room to collect the remains, along with the single long-stemmed rose that Kurt had bought this morning and left safely in his boyfriend's small personal refrigerator. Blaine also collected the small spade he had snuck out of the gardener's shed and together they solemnly walked off the main school grounds and into the woods beyond.

Kindly, Blaine did the honors of digging the small grave while Kurt hollowed out a space in which to embed the fabulous headstone he had created to mark Pavarotti's passing. He had not been sure of the bird's actual age, so he had simply put 2010-2011 to commemorate the period that the cheerful little bird had been a part of his life.

"Farewell, sweet prince," Kurt said softly, looking down upon the tiny bedazzled coffin as Blaine covered it over with soil.

"I'm sorry, Kurt," Blaine told him sympathetically. "I know this is really upsetting for you. Reminds you of your mom's funeral, doesn't it?"

He stood close to Kurt, respecting his sad silence for a moment.

"The casket was bigger," Kurt shot back, unable to stop his automatic reaction of deflecting Blaine's offered sympathy with a small wise-crack.

He had not expected Blaine to make that connection. They had never really spoken of her but part of the reason Kurt had chosen "Blackbird" was that it had been one of his mother's favorite songs. He had once told Blaine that the cassette tape of his mother playing guitar, singing along to a few of the tracks, was one of the few solid reminders he had left of her and that it was one of his most treasured possessions.

The fact that Blaine had apparently remembered that choked him up even more than the sad occasion before them. Remembering that they had more than just friendship to bind them now, Kurt added, "But, yes. It's not just that, though. Honestly, I'm upset that we lost at Regionals."

Blaine reminded him that the Warblers could still perform in other places. His joke about performing at nursing homes and GAP stores, which Kurt recognized as an affectionate reminder of his own words to the Warbler's council weeks ago about following the example set by New Directions, drew a tight attempt at a smile.

Drawing a deep breath, Kurt laid his rose down upon the grave. "Yeah," he said softly, "but I just really, really wanted to win."

He only half-listened to Blaine's assurance that he _had_ won, barely able to hear him past the rush of blood in his ears and bubble of painful defeat rising inside his chest. He had lost his place with New Directions and now his old team had gone on to win Regionals, without him. He had joined the Warblers, who had given him Pavarotti, a live warbler, with an admonition to take care of the little bird because he was the symbol of Kurt's voice within their group. Kurt had resented that gesture at first, seeing nothing but a cage that seemed to represent his own spirit, though Kurt knew the Warblers had not meant it in that way.

Over time, he had come to love Pavarotti dearly, and to cherish his place within the Warblers. He had begun daring to dream new dreams again. Lately it had seemed as if he really was starting over and that he might just go all the way to the top with his new glee club. He had seemed to be opening the door of his confining little cage and flying free once again.

But now, Pavarotti was dead, and Kurt's dreams of Nationals, what was to be his first-ever glimpse at the bright lights of New York, of the possibilities for a brighter future that lay within them, had died with the Warblers defeat.

"We got each other out of all this. That beats a lousy trophy, don't you think?"

Blaine's sweet sincerity broke through the bubble of self-pity in Kurt's brain and he managed a more sincere smile than he had worn since the moment the Regionals announcer had revealed the judges' decision.

The other boy was right. He did not have everything he had wanted, and he had lost a great deal, but he had one of the greatest things in life. Something he had once doubted he would ever find. He had someone who loved him, and believed in him, and was willing to stand by him in good moods and bad. And he had friends in both New Directions and the Warblers, people who counted him as one of their own no matter what.

Blaine held out his hand and Kurt grasped it firmly as they walked away from Pavarotti's last resting place. The symbol of his voice may have been silenced, but he was beginning to realize that he was not well-represented by a sweet but tame little caged canary. Kurt Hummel was a phoenix, ever rising from the ashes. No matter how many times his voice or spirit was silenced; it would eventually reemerge stronger and better than before.

As the two of them headed back toward the student parking lot and Kurt's car, Kurt shifted closer, keeping Blaine's hand in his as he kissed him on the cheek.

"What was that for?" Blaine asked, smiling shyly.

"For being here. For coming with me today to say goodbye to Pavi. For reminding me that while I may have lost something important, I still have a lot of wonderful things left in my life. Things like this," he said, squeezing Blaine's hand.

He smiled and squeezed back. "Better than a trophy?"

Kurt suddenly thought of Sue Sylvester, her life filled with bright, shiny trophies and little else, so afraid to let anyone inside her walls that she had been left with nothing but rage and discontent when robbed of her chance to collect yet another symbol of victory.

"Much better," he whispered, pausing as they reached his car and moving close to press a gentle but heartfelt kiss against Blaine's soft lips. "Thank you, Blaine. See you Monday?"

"I'll be here," Blaine said, sounding a little breathless.

He stood and watched with a tender smile as Kurt drove away from the grounds of Dalton Academy, staying where he was until the Navigator was out of sight. Kurt knew he did, because he kept one eye on the rearview mirror until he finally rounded the bend that would take him off school property.

Driving along towards home, Kurt clicked off the music filtering from his speakers. He drove in silence for a few miles, then started humming, eventually breaking into song. He sang softly at first and then louder and more joyfully, giving free reign to the song that had been playing in the back of his mind for the past two hours. "Just go ahead and hate on me and run your mouth! So everyone can hear. Hit me with the worst you got, and knock me down! Baby, I don't care. Keep it up, I'm tuning up to fade you out. You wanna be. You wanna be. A loser like me!"

The minute he got home, he was going to track down wherever the victory party was being held and join his old friends. He would congratulate them, sincerely this time, on a very well deserved victory.

Perhaps he would even do them all a favor and plant a few seeds of suggestion for what costumes they might wear to Nationals. Because seriously, sky blue satin mini-dresses with black combat boots and Spanx? They were going to New York City. A fashion intervention was desperately needed before they disgraced all of Ohio!

It was the least he could do. After all, Kurt might not go to McKinley anymore but he _was_ still part of New Directions.

He always would be.

THE END


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